Deduction Seduction
by Of Miracles And Men
Summary: Not exactly what it says on the tin, but a story when Bruce Wayne, otherwise known as the Batman, makes several unexpected discoveries about his fellow teammates (and in some cases, an enemy or two) and their conflicting romantic emotions toward the caped crusader. The catch? They're all the male teammates. The list may continue with suggestions, in this story played for laughs.
1. Speed Means Overconfidence

There had been a change, silent, subtle, yet profound. Bruce noticed it in the way Wally acted, the way his gait had somehow matured, from that light, springy step, to one more musing, thoughtful, not quite plodding and yet not quite altruistic, and the way his smiles, still bright, still cheerful, were almost wondering, knowledgeable.

What did he know? What was he hiding? What had happened?

Bruce had his theories about it; he always did, his need to be in the know about everything, especially when it concerned his teammates, was overwhelming. Infatuation with a new person, probably a girl on the tower, would have been the most plausible answer, but Bruce (and everyone else on the Watchtower) knew for a fact that Wally had met all and every single girl as soon as they had been added to the roster _and _made it a point to ask them on a date.

And he had just left them all as quickly. There was no chance it was a woman from the tower; this was Bruce's last thought before he exited the hallway from which he had found himself walking down and then twitched in surprise; there had been the oddest sensation as if something had graced his hand.

When he turned, he saw no one but the swell of people rushing from the newest, convenient emergency that blared over the speakers and conveyed through the booming, melancholy tones of J'onn, and nothing over the sea of bobbing heads save curls of exotically colored hair, spontaneous masks, and a greeting from Wally as he descended down the steps and then disappeared around the corner with a pop and burst of air as the sound barrier was broken.

After the mission and the day progressed (and Wally's mood seemed to be rubbing off on the watchtower and making Bruce increasingly suspicious) he continued to think. A woman from work, then? Although Wally had a different persona than the one he donned with the mask, Bruce marked him as the type that wouldn't vary in personality when it came to secret identities; and that meant that Wally couldn't be marked to commitment in his other, more scientific-oriented job either.

It most definitely wasn't a promotion; those frayed threads on Wally's sleeve weren't exactly disappearing or at the very least patched up, and besides, he wouldn't even notice or care to use money to get them fixed. Bruce found himself returning to the idea of infatuation more and more with each theory that presented itself.

He thought on this as he gave the diagnostic to J'onn and something brushed his shoulder, but he brushed it off when J'onn later informed him of the air coolant malfunctioning; when he turned, he saw the man he had been formulating his theories about speaking to Mr. Terrific about how the Red Sox were doing this season, and brushed the thought away.

After making a brief call to Alfred and telling him he wouldn't have to fix dinner tonight at home and to just make something for Dick and Barbara when they came over, he descended down the tube to the nearest mess hall and found himself sitting at a table with, at the very least, tolerable company.

"Does Wally have a girlfriend?" Diana asked as the two of them sat at a table a few steps away from the exit, as people filtered in to have a much-deserved dinner, to chat with friends or just to star-gaze out the great plexiglass window after a long day at fighting the good fight.

So his mood hadn't escaped the great Amazon Princess either. She wasn't stupid.

She waited for his answer, sampling the delicacies of congealed, previously freeze-dried Thanagarian soup with the poise befitting of a princess, and Bruce found himself roused from his thoughts upon musing upon the intricate emotions and conundrum that was his fellow teammate.

He looked to her, dark eyes meeting with flawless blue ones, and their gazes met as she lowered her fork, plump red lips ever-so-slightly pursed as she regarded him.

"Something on your mind?" She asked, her expression calm and reserved as she inclined her head to her soup, considering upon his welfare, as her eyes did not move away from him.

"He doesn't seem like the kind to commit." Bruce admitted, ignoring her previous question, and Diana nodded upon the truth of his statement, looking out to the great vastness of space and then back to him.

"But he's never this happy unless it's a new girl." Diana said, and the urge to smile fought its way onto Bruce's face.

It almost made it. Almost.

"I don't really think it's much of our concern," Bruce said with the hypocrisy of a perfect liar, as he straightened his posture against the unyielding plastic of the chair, and Diana's brow narrowed on those chiseled, perfect features as she frowned at him, the slightest disturbance on that faultless face of hers making it become more enhanced.

"We've all known each other for ages, Bruce. I think we're allowed to share a few things about ourselves."

"I beg to differ." He replied.

"Maybe if you stepped down from that perch you put yourself in." Diana suggested with the subtlest hint of teasing and solemnity in her voice.

The door to the mess hall slid open automatically with a hiss of metal and air, and the two of them turned, and the two of them turned to look at the man who had captured their conversation stride in, humming a song he had heard on the radio.

"Hi, Diana. Hi, Bats." Wally grinned as he passed by them, and Bruce tensed, unconsciously, unwittingly, as he strode by, a tactile disturbance that consumed his cheek with unexpected warmth by a movement too quick to be caught by the human eye or to be perceived by the human brain until long after it had passed.

As Diana smiled at Wally in greeting and he continued to the line of people with trays waiting for food, Bruce blinked, mildly perturbed, and turned to Diana, brow furrowing.

"Did you feel that?" putting a hand to his cheek, sensitive gloved fingers running a rudimentary, at best, scan, over his cheek, as confusion, an idea unfamiliar to him, percolated in his brain.

"What was what?" she asked, those bright blue eyes meeting upon him with concern as they drifted down to settle on the hand that practically cupped his cheek.

"Something…something touched my cheek. I don't know what it was. Almost as if—"

He paused for a second, hand lowering as the well-oiled gears of his mind began to turn and the world's greatest detective did some great deducting.

"Almost as if what?" Diana asked politely, concern growing with a gradual steady increase as she set a cautious, wary look on him.

_Almost as if someone kissed me._

"Nothing." Bruce said, realizing how simple everything was with all the clues laid at your feet.

A man, obviously infatuated, and apparently not attracted to any of them women at either of his work jobs, could probably be assumed to either be practicing abstinence or experimenting with his sexuality.

And knowing Wally…

Additionally, a man with such a status as Wally's, and the abilities of a speedster to boot, but the sudden idea to act mature, to create an act, a façade to direct attention or blame him or from possible abuses of speedster-related powers.

And, for Bruce, unexpected tactile disturbances, in three different events, where Wally was suspiciously, coincidentally in the vicinity of those three events.

"Bruce." Diana called him from the realm of his thoughts, while his hand, balled up in a fist underneath the shadow of the table on his leg, relaxed and the fingers splayed out, able to return to comfort for the moment.

Ignoring her for the moment Bruce turned away to look at the line, where Wally was chatting, smiling, and apparently oblivious to Bruce's deductions.

Oh, that man knew what he was doing. Clever bastard. Bruce would have commended him if he wasn't on the receiving end of it.

"Bruce?" Diana repeated, as he observed the line for a moment longer, and then as he turned back to the fine reflection of himself in the polished sheen of the table.

"Nothing," Bruce said as he turned back and thought of how future events were going to come to a head later in the most interesting of ways, "Nothing at all."

He needed a stiff drink.


	2. Subtlety, Thy Name Sure Ain't Plastic

**A/N: For the few of you that can't picture this, just imagine the Kevin Conroy/Justice League Batman and the Tom Kenny/Brave and the Bold Plastic Man. **

* * *

There were many fine points of subtlety that Bruce had been known to abide by. He knew when to drop the right hint, how to coddle out the clues from the most tight-lipped, how to understand the deeper, more insinuating meaning between the lines he so often read, and how to comprehend even the most succinct, concealed emotions with the blink of an eye.

Eel O'Brien had obviously not received the memo, as he stared, almost adoringly, practically idolizing Bruce as he drove in the batmobile, the sleek machine of power and precision that purred down the empty street during patrol, at a nice, easy eighty, shining in the brief intervals of light from the lampposts at every street corner they passed.

Bruce was starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable with each moment that passed. O'Brien was clearly not noticing, as he continued to stare, his cheek cupped in his hand, resting comfortably on the plush armrest of his seat, immaculate leather that Alfred had just cleaned not a few hours ago.

He felt the uncontrollable desire to bring up conversation to distract himself from the discomfort he was experiencing, and managed a brief, sidelong glance at those large, opaque, white-rimmed glasses that were his friend's trademark item.

Along with, to Bruce's even greater agitation, the skintight, revealing red _swimsuit_ of a costume.

"O'Brien." Bruce said, rounding a corner, the streetlight flashing upon the dashboard, a bright burst of sunspots, and then they plunged into the interval of darkness with the headlights cutting through like a hot knife through butter, punctuated by a customary screech of rubber on tar.

No response. Was he still staring at him? Bruce managed another look and found the answer to his great displeasure.

Was his mouth ajar? Something was not right. O'Brien had something on his mind.

"O'Brien." Bruce repeated.

Still no response. The aftereffects of a battle with a villain, possibly? Although he wasn't the kind to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, and well…he didn't exactly look stressed, or, for that, fact, alive in any way whatsoever.

"_O'Brien."_

"Huh?" the superhero known as Plastic Man, better known to Bruce as Eel O'Brien, reanimated and removed his head from the cup of his hand and looked at Bruce as if he was seeing him for the first time; it only made him feel more restless.

"Is there…something on your mind?"

As if Bruce had flicked a switch, he became overly-defensive, waving his hands back and forth to disregard such an idea as preposterous, so quickly and haphazardly that his wrists began to wriggle and sway like loose, uncontained rubber and he shook his head so quickly it turned like a corkscrew with his vehemence.

"No, no no no no, Bats, nothing's wrong at all! Nah, that's ridiculous, something wrong with _me?_ I'm in tip-top shape, yesiree!" he grinned, and tried to look nonchalant as he leaned back in the leather-trimmed seat, propping his elbow on the head of the seat and leaning in, yet only succeeded in looking more obvious and unconvincing.

Bruce only twitched at the mention of the nickname 'Bats', his little problem with Wally wasn't exactly going away, he had suffered enough with his little tricks, which had only increased exponentially with his confidence, which seemed to be soaring since he assumed he was being _oh_-so-discreet.

"Nope, I'm fine, really, couldn't be better! Life's been good to me, yup, it has, and I really think the weather's nice, today, don't you? But it sure is hot in here, isn't it, although I wonder if there aren't some things in here that are hotter—"

Bruce had long ago learned to tune out O'Brien's babbling, and knew that it was beyond any sane mind to attempt to calm him down, and sought to change the subject, unaware of the last comment his companion had slyly added in.

"How is your girlfriend?" he found himself forcing the question through his teeth as he screeched down the street, finding idle conversation better than being stared at by a man that would only shiver like putty if Bruce punched him.

"Huh? Oh, her? Oh, we broke up, she didn't like how I was changing into her lingerie, although hey, can I help it if all she ever wore were red g-strings, no, I don't think so—"

"Explain to me how that was necessary for my well-bring, O'Brien."

"Uh. Is that a trick question?"

"Just shut up."

"Yes, sir, shutting up right away!" he saluted, like the obtuse idiot he was, chest literally swelling with pride, and relaxed into the seat, ready to assume his previous routine of staring as the shadows from the night curved around his face and were replaced by streetlight from the neon bar sign.

Bruce knew for a fact that O'Brien would never listen unless it was something serious, or there was a great matter at hand.

There was something up with this, and it probably had to do with the staring and his recent break-up, and knowing the man staring at him once more from the passenger seat, he knew he was going to have to solve the damn thing in one way or another to have some peace of mind (or _sanity_ of mind, to be more exact) in his life.

A man suffering from a breakup with a woman he had pined over for so long (months, oh, Bruce considered multiple times to pick up a gun and shoot himself with it after hearing how lovingly O'Brien spoke of her), and, had he found another woman so quickly in the time being, certainly would be acting more immature and less, outright…_creepy _towards him_._

He rounded on the corner sharply, jolting the two of them, as the screech of a burglar alarm a block away soared through the night.

But O'Brien had been complacent and obedient (by his standards, at least) and had reserved himself to staring, when he could have been doing something far worse (Bruce was still fuming over that incident with the wheels half a year ago), almost like the whipped, trained puppy persona he assumed around—

… The…women…he…loved.

Or, unfortunately for Bruce, now, men.

Bruce had never found himself happier for a bank robbery in all the waking moments of his life.


	3. Sparring With Mr Berserker

**A/N: To those few (yet dearly loved) that have liked and followed this story, thank you, thank you so much, I'm so glad that you've liked it and I hope that you enjoy reading this and future chapters. **

**And this is more of a serious chapter, with more implications than Bruce actually deducing the reasons why (perhaps he's in denial).**

* * *

It was just an exercise. It was just a training exercise, and Bruce knew that, in his heart of hearts, as he focused his willpower and agility into the dance, the deft, improvised yet choreographed dance that he involved himself in as he ducked the heavy swinging blow of a fist that would have made quite a mess of him had his reflexes not been more acute.

Unfortunately, he found that Orion had a more difficult time adjusting to this idea.

The New God roared as he descended down upon him, his hands clenched together, clasped and held high above his head and then, upon reaching his destination ( a mere half foot away from Bruce) swung down with enough force to cow Diana, if but for a moment.

He wondered if Orion was going easy on him.

Bruce instinctively leapt back, a hand out and to palm the ground to maintain balance, as the spot that Orion had meant to be where Bruce's head would lay had hit the ground with enough force that it had cracked and caved in into a crater or marble tile on the training floor, and shuddered violently. He paused, regaining his balance, and then stood as Orion did, although maintaining his control over his emotions.

There was moment of silence as the two of them waited for either to begin again, Orion breathing deeply through his nose, face unreadable behind the helmet he so fondly wore, and Bruce feeling adrenaline begin to take roost in his veins.

Orion took the first step, a growl on his lips and his walk that was meant to close the distance between the two of them broke into a run, lumbering yet precise, and barreling with untapped power.

Bruce inched forward, preparing himself, a watchful eye as Orion closed the distance and swung forward a fist aimed at Bruce's jaw.

He ducked, cape billowing like the darkness of the night, just at the right moment so that the fist hit thin air, and he struck his leg out, poking behind his ankle and then tugged forward with a quick jerk, prompting Orion to realize as he fell to the ground, that he had lost his footing.

After a choosing a few choice expletives, Orion found it again before Bruce could find a way to take advantage of his momentary weakness, and shouted in rage and a pride wounded as he shot an uppercut that would have certainly caused an instantaneous victory for himself, had it found its target, as Bruce dodged to the left.

This did not faze him, as he continued to punch in his direction, only seeming to grow in resolve and blatant fury, and aimed a roundhouse kick that hit the full of Bruce's left arm and made him grunt in surprise and blossoming pain.

Orion grinned a mad grin, and took this moment to aim a well-chosen knee towards Bruce's ribcage, yet this would still not find its target, for Bruce weaved to the side, eyes narrowing at his opponent's unsubtle bloodlust.

"You are a worthy opponent," Orion growled, in a tone that would have killed had it been a weapon, "worthy of protecting your mewling, whimpering dimension."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Bruce replied, and then finally shot back with a punch from his right that struck him square across the jaw and made him no more blink in surprise had one tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

He wasn't a New God for no good reason. Orion chuckled at Bruce's punch and then retaliated with one of his own that grazed his jaw line yet did no more than that.

"I'll carve it on your gravestone, should you desire." Orion answered, grunting as he received one of Bruce's kicks to his side, so greatly powered that he found his balance lost for the briefest of instants as Bruce found this immensely advantageous.

"I'll pass," Bruce replied as he punched Orion square in the stomach yet found his hand slapped down and away by the New God, and looked up to meet his gaze in mute surprise as Orion hit Bruce's cheekbone with the gentle force of an anvil.

Stars and spots of light danced before his vision as he fumbled in his stance and nearly fell to the ground, mere feet away from the wall, yet could think no more upon it before Orion assumed the previous position as he had when he had deigned to smash the floor, and managed to duck out of the way once more, but not before he found his cheek clipped, if but briefly, by the blow.

"Will you?" He taunted as he aimed another punch towards him that he kicked away, only to have him respond in turn with another blow that cracked the wall behind him. Bruce ducked away, so that he would not be pinned behind the wall, and made it so that it would be Orion who would be backed against it.

"Give me a few more seconds. I'll tell you then."

The glare on his face was obvious as Orion boxed at his arm, the one that he had previously kicked, and Bruce's eyes widened in surprise as he felt the pain that had recently numbed begin to bloom once more, and groaned in pain, only to have the New God snatch up the advantage before it could be lost, and kicked at his shoulder of the other arm, making him hiss in pain as he found himself being circle by Orion.

Bruce shot out, with a snap or his wrist, at Orion's chest, yet it would have been as useful as hitting Clark, he had lost the advantage to the moment and his left arm was beginning to feel numb once more.

The wall pressed against the small of his back, although he paid it no mind, and he dodged the second punch that Orion aimed at him, much too slow to actually connect, especially since Orion knew of Bruce's skills, quickly learned in these training session and mock battles.

Bruce mused if Orion was pulling punches, but found Orion's arm, thick and muscular, pull up underneath his chin and forced him against the wall as his larynx became tight and forced against the walls of his throat, and thought it wise to disregard the idea as fallacy, as Orion hoisted his head up so that Bruce could only look down upon him.

"Or perhaps I will tell you." Orion said, and he pulled back a fist, aimed with determination and teeth bared, that formed a smile of battle.

Bruce said nothing but merely narrowed his eyes at his opponent, expecting the eventual pain that would render him unconscious for a few minutes, at the very least, or a visit to medical bay.

And then Orion paused, fist wavering, and Bruce stared, apprehensive, and watched with more than mild astonishment overcoming him as Orion did not follow through with the finishing blow, and removed his arm from underneath Bruce's throat, allowing him to regain control over his vocal chords and regain his footing on two feet.

As if he was disgusted by his own actions, Orion spat on the ground and turned away, not bothering to bless Bruce with a second glance, as he stormed to the exit and shoved open the door with a bang.

"Take your victory," Orion snapped, concealing the expression that spoke of emotions he had wished to bury, unaware that he possessed them, least of all for the one he had recently fought, "I hope you choke on it."

Bruce could only find himself staring, as he watched Orion so seemingly infuriated to rescind his victory over to a man who he had no qualm over numbing the feeling in his arm nor creating craters in the floor from blows aimed at him.

Why would he pull his punches? Why would he mess? Why would he allow Bruce to leave the fight conscious, of all things? It had only been the beginning of their sparring and yet apparently Orion could not find it within him to continue.

Why?

There were answers to this, of course, and due to recent events, Bruce desperately did not want to interpret it as how he feared, and made a mad dash in his mind to scratch out that idea. With a man that possessed such a bloodlust as Orion's, and the strength to fulfill any of those needs, there was simply no precedent to leave his opponent standing.

But Bruce couldn't guess for the life of him the reasoning behind it.

Or at least, hoped he couldn't.

* * *

**Next up, Mr. One Punch. **


	4. Stopping For Drunkards

**A/N: Pardon for the poor quality of the chapter, but this was made at twelve in the morning and it's not in the best. I hope you guys like it, and to those who have liked it and followed and reviewed, thank you, thank you, thank you. My heart and my love go out to you all, ever-so-much, for deciding to read this silly little series that I've made. Thank you, so much, and enjoy this little encounter between Guy Gardner, the Rambo With A Ring, and Bruce Wayne, otherwise known as the Dark Knight. **

* * *

His vision, bright blue eyes glazed over, like the fine glass of china, crossed, displayed one of the first signs, and his shorn orange-red hair, bobbed lazily, a cork on uneven waters, a swaying motion as his hand reached for the edge of the table he sat at with a lackadaisical, careless grip, and missed, by the slightest of inches, proving the second sign and third sign with swaying, careless movements and poor depth perception.

Bruce's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the sorry sight before him, as Guy Gardner's head bobbed up and down, in a mute nod to no one and slurred, "Perfec'…jes' perfec'."

Slurring. The fourth sign of the many numerous ones of intoxication.

It was official. Guy Gardner was drunk.

"Guy." Bruce said, his voice a sharp, visceral knife through the deadened, incoherent consciousness of the green lantern, hunched over a counter, and he set about a glance, at the wary, hushed faces that stared about at him from the far, far corners of the poorly lit bar, dark shadows creeping and curving about the contours of grim, oafish faces, faces that darted their gazes away anxiously and shuddered, muttering to each other as they fought the sudden, uncontrollable fear of things that hid in the dark.

Gardner grunted, a slow, dull noise as he straightened yet relaxed, the slope of his mouth curving downward, as if he had relieved all control over his jaw and allowed it to fall slack, allowing all mumblings and incoherence to fall out freely.

"Bats…is tha' you?" Guy mumbled, turning with a neck that had been oiled to well and turned, stopping short and then snapping back, gaze drifting lazily about, from the dusty floorboards to the scratched, etched counter with scrawling of those who had once been patrons, and the to the rim of his shot glass, which was curved with the neon sign behind the shelves of various bottles and liquors.

"You're needed. We need to go." Bruce said, retaining composure and withholding his disgust. He did not feel the need to retain any physical contact with Guy whatsoever.

"'N what do…the assholes up there…need a lil' green l't'rn like _meee,_ for, huh, _batssss?"_ Guy groaned, and his head tilted back, tiled up into the light and squinted, pupils dilating, as he stared to Bruce, who made a note of the way his pupils dilated and took this into careful consideration.

There were several reasons of pupil dilation. But Bruce could only riddle them down to three out of the first eight that had appeared to the front of his mind, the first, being that pupils will dilate greatly, but recede, when one's interest is being held; but, unfortunately, only for the beginnings of conversation. Pupil dilation will recede when the conversation of subject of interest no longer becomes interesting.

The second is when a brain is overloaded, whether with school, university calculus, social life, stress or simple, pure unadulterated, fear, and quite possibly when one was under the influence of such vices as alcohol, and could thus retain the dilation of pupils.

The third reason for the pupil dilation, was arousal, as such, when one was under the influence of alcohol, one's judgment and sexuality were usually warped or impaired, combined with the stench of booze and sin and delicately crafted coincidences all guided by the hand of fate; ideas and once-firm beliefs could be easily as uprooted as they had been placed.

Bruce quickly chalked it all up to a more or less equal combination of the three and hoped to get on with it and have Gardner out of his hair and out of his hands as soon as possible; he was learning far, _far_ too much about the most irresponsible guardian of the Green Lantern Corps than he had ever hoped to know.

With willpower he did not think he possessed, Bruce extended a gloved hand and reached out for the scruff of Gardner's collar, heaving him out of his stool with the most minute of exertions; Guy, surprisingly, complied with unexpected compliancy as he allowed himself to be moved and stumbled, nearly falling upon his knees.

"Watch it," a man from the corner replied with a sneer, assuming Guy to be soft and docile in his drunken state and forgetting just who his warden was at the moment. Before Bruce could respond though, Guy snapped back with unexpected sharpness to the slur, "Fuck off, asswipe."

"Temper, Guy," Bruce reprimanded him, although there was no vehemence to it, and, although taking the crown for racist, misogynistic shallow excuse for a man, deserved at least a moment of peace for his indulgences.

"Up…up yours…" Guy muttered, but there was no volume, no weight to it either, as Bruce strode out of the door with a click of a door handle and a furl of a cape and a warning glance back to the rest of the crowd as they returned to the fresher, crisper air of the outside, if not as dingy nor reminiscent of beer.

"Don't talk. You'll make yourself into a bigger fool." Bruce warned him, not allowing his grip on the back of the bright green collar to slip, should Guy fall as well but eventually found no choice in the matter after a moment as Guy doubled over and found the contents of his stomach released onto the pavement.

Bruce diplomatically found the best idea to look out into the darkness of the street and search out for any problems that would provide a distraction from the rather disgusting noise of vomit upon concrete and waited, if but impatiently.

"Gee, Bats," Gardner groaned as he wiped away the bits of fleck from the corners of his mouth, "I didn't know…you cared."

"I will be clear, and I will only be clear once," Bruce said as he narrowed his gaze down upon Gardner as he crouched by the drainpipe and stared into the recesses below, "I only came because the man who asked you to join the league asked me to get you, and only because I have the utmost respect for him."

"C'mon…can't you let me have m' fun? It's not every day a…" at this moment his words become so incomprehensible that Bruce could not understand it (and he was not entirely sure he wanted to understand what Guy had said at that moment) as he began to increase the volume of his words once more, almost as if he were self-conscious or aware of himself, "…guy like you picks up a lush like me."

"You're drunk." Bruce repeated, coldly. "If you'd like me to hold this against you, I'd be welcome to, but I'd advise you to shut up."

"Shut up, Bats. Just 'cause you're…" Guy paused, retching once more and then gasping for breath above the grating, "Just 'cause you're…"

"Because I'm _what,_ Guy?" Bruce asked, feeling what pity he had for the bastard beginning to wear thin.

Guy scoffed, his addled brain beginning to frizz. "Wouldn't—wouldn't you like to know. Wouldn't you."

"I highly doubt it." He replied, unmoving as Guy continued to retch, throat becoming dry.

"Nah, I…I guess not. Sure you don't want…want to guess?"

"Maybe when the clues aren't coming out of your stomach." Bruce replied, although the clues had already lined up; due to the dilation of pupils affected by three variables, the sudden acquiescence, the need to play a game that he wanted to be played. It was painfully obvious to him, as greatly as it contrasted to such a tough, tumble-down personality façade that Gardner had so set up, only to have it be deduced ever-so-easily by Bruce.

Of course, even though he had already solved the game, he thought with a well-concealed smile, there was no reason for him to play along, was there?

"Good point," Guy sighed, and emptied the rest of his stomach into the drain, and felt the drowsiness that so often came with alcohol and unconsciousness, consume him, as Bruce ducked down to catch him from lodging his head into the drainpipe.

The next morning, it was bright, painful, and there was a dull throbbing in his temple and a mild inconvenience as he recalled nothing from the previous night and made up for it with a foul mouth and even fouler actions.

For Bruce, however, who remembered everything from the previous night, he had a dull throbbing in his temple for another reason.


	5. Silly Booster, Popularity is For Kids

**And now, something different.**

* * *

"Booster, are you crazy?" Ted demanded as he stared at his companion from across the lunch table they sat at, eyes widening in simple, plain shock as his fork, speared with most-certainly indigestible food, dangled before his parted lips now ajar with shock.

There were many things Ted Kord, due to being the Blue Beetle, and then a superhero, had to put up with now and then, including the occasional super-villain, arch-nemesis, bank robbery, a few good licks now and then, and then, unfortunately, the recurring, awesome, obfuscating _stupidity_ of best friends.

"Come on, Teddy, just think about it. You have to admit it's a good idea, don't'cha?" Booster demanded, he who had much more of an appetite than the one that Ted found himself no longer in possession of, as he scarfed down the disgusting freeze-dried food that apparently considered (according to Booster) all the rage in the twenty-fifth century.

"_It certainly does have its plausibility to it, Mr. Kord," _Skeets chirped in and he made a whirl around Ted's head, making him feel the slightest case of vertigo that dissipated as he returned to hovering by his best friend's shoulder, _"And it would indeed create a surge in popularity and respect for him."_

"For what? Martyrdom?" Ted exclaimed, eyes wide with irritation and mingling panic behind his transparent yellow goggles as he ogled upon Booster and Skeets, who were seemingly unperturbed by his dramatic increase in concern.

"Well, that could be another angle to it, I suppose. But the idea of _'forbidden love'_ sounds more attractive, doesn't it?" Booster grinned his jovial, roguish grin, or at least, what he assumed one would look like.

Ted found his temples in desperate need of being rubbed and he quickly satisfied that need, closing his eyes in utter incredulity.

"Booster, there's a difference, a _big_ difference between suicide and popularity." He groaned.

"And who says I'm crossing it? You're just not thinking in the big picture right now! Besides, the idea of homoerotic ideas and homosexuality is _such_ a _franchise_ to be exploited in this century; by my time it's already common knowledge that it's anyone's choice to go either way, but _here…" _

Booster rubbed his hands together and smiled for want of a dramatic pause. _"…here_ it's still budding. Still new. And _that—"_ at that moment he jabbed a finger in Ted's face, as Ted retreated his head in favor of keeping his nose "—is simply a business opportunity I cannot let get away."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, okay!" Ted replied, holding up his hands in self-defense, wondering why he had the worst taste in friends, "I get that. All right."

He paused, trying to word his thoughts properly short of calling his best friend a dumbass.

"But…why _Batman_, Booster, of _all_ people?"

"Let's think about it like this," Booster said, shifting his arms to hold up his hands as if he were forming a picture frame, his obnoxiously bright uniform flashing underneath the glare of the mess hall lights, as Skeets zoomed around the back of Booster's head to get another angle of the imaginary shot and Ted prepared himself for a lecture he did _not_ want to hear, "I'm the innocent angel. The incorruptible, naïve darling that brings light wherever he goes, see?"

"Oh, _sure,"_ Ted replied, sarcasm dripping in his voice that went over Booster's head, "_definitely."_

"And _Batman,"_ Booster said, reforming his hands so that they formed contorted shapes that were obviously meant to symbolize two different people, "Batman is the Dark Knight, the incubus come from hell to corrupt. The destroyer, the menace, the evil darkness."

He looked to Ted for confirmation. "Right?"

"Uh-_huh."_

"Well, it's a total polar opposite thing, y'see? It's the angel and the demon, the two forces that can never be united, the joining of two halves of a whole, the whole yin-and-yang, 'forbidden love' romance; that kind of romantic thing." Booster said, and at this he lowered his hands to look at Ted, an almost crazed light in his eye from reciting his master plan.

"Like Twilight?" Ted set a wary eye upon his friend.

"I, for one, am surprised you know what Twilight is, but yes, I suppose, like _Twilight."_ Booster said with the impetuous audacity he so usually wore about himself and a smug, sanctimonious smirk on his face as he crossed his arms triumphantly and looked upon his companion.

"Well, considering most people of sound mind _hate_ Twilight, I'm not sure if that would work out so great," Ted said as he shifted in his seat, but Booster was not one to be felled in his plan and replied quickly, "Well, what makes it different is the whole _drama_ to it, Teddy. The fact that two men—superheroes, yes—would be engaged in passionate, forbidden _love,_ isn't just what drives the media wild but also makes the best example. It would be preaching to everyone everywhere, 'It's okay to be gay, the superheroes are doing it, you can too!" kind of mindset; and that's the stuff that gets you big; the whole role-model, teacher, leadership act."

"Also, when they catch wind that it's all a lie and when Batman's going to kill you, how much of a pretentious, farcical _dick_ you are." Ted replied, cupping his cheek in his hand.

"Well, who says I'd be a liar?" Booster replied, looking rather miffed as his arms folded once more and the slightest expression of offense appeared on his face.

A light bulb went off in Ted's brain.

"Oh—Oh _God,_ Booster, I had no idea you were—" Ted stammered out an apology that tumbled out of his mouth, realizing just how much goddamn _sense_ everything made now.

"Well, yes, I did say it's no big matter in the twenty-fifth century, I guess I just forgot to tell you. Besides, I didn't think you would mind." Booster replied, and uncrossed and crossed his ankles below the top of the table, inspecting his food rather pointedly while Ted fought the urge to clench his legs together and try to think of his happy place.

"No, it's not—" Ted muttered, putting his head in his palm for a brief moment, resigning himself to the tender mercies of fate, _"—ugh._ I've known you too long to mind about anything you do now, and I'm okay with it."

Ignoring the return of Booster's smirk, he continued.

"But why couldn't you go for any I don't know, less…_terrifying_ people? Not all examples have to be so…_BDSM."_ He struggled for words and instantly his mouth felt filthy as he said it. He would have to wash out his mouth later.

"Are you implying I try it with someone like _you,_ then?" Booster quirked up an eyebrow and Ted felt the need to choke on air as Skeets veered over to him, lights flashing, and apparently concerned for his rapidly declining welfare.

"No. _No._ That's not what I was suggesting. But someone less like Batman, maybe, would be a good start." Ted replied, clearing his throat and regaining his composure.

"Hmm," he replied, drumming his fingers on his chin, "That might be nice. But…_nah._ It's too blasé. No action, no flavor to it; people want to see the dark, sadistic relationships, not some gooey, lovey-dovey happy matrimonial life routine."

"You should be a romance novelist" is what Ted muttered to his food as he unwillingly forked a bite into his mouth and chewed.

"I was considering that." Booster retorted and Skeets added in helpfully _"He was planning to before he became a superhero"_, as the two of them turned to look to the door, which was closed and not showing any sign of opening and reanimating back to life.

"But now, I just need to run the idea by Bats and see what he thinks. A-List, here I come!" he was practically squealing with excitement for impending doom.

"Can I write that on your epitaph?" Ted muttered again, looking up at his stupid, stupid, stupid friend with half-lidded eyes, although the comment went unheard, as, surprises of surprises, the door slid open and revealed the man that Ted pitied and feared the most at that moment, and the man that was probably, most certainly going to kill Booster, as the titular hero entered the room and watched with what seemed to be mild disgust and irritation as said man rose from his seat with a squeak and went to go talk to him.

"Oh, Batman, mind if I have a word with you?"

* * *

It had been a long, tiring day, and Bruce was at his wits end. There had been a murder down in Gotham, a bank robbery on the West End, and the Joker had broken out of Arkham precisely at noon when everyone was out to lunch.

And he had a splitting headache.

Today had not been a good day, and now he sincerely hoped that maybe duty on the Tower would be a load off his back, compared to the previous dealings of the day, a break from the madness of Gotham.

That was, of course, the last thought on his mind before he entered the mess hall, to go get something to eat, and saw the last person he wanted to see at the moment rise from his seat in that obnoxiously noxious yellow and blue uniform of his and start towards him in a manner that could be considered just a bit overly-friendly.

"Oh, Batman, mind if I have a word with you?" those words slunk past Booster Gold's lips, like poison, like a honey trap, a predator waiting to strike, words that were tainted with some evil that he could not fathom at the moment—and certainly didn't want to.

Without allowing a word to be uttered, Bruce turned on his heel and exited out of the room without a second glance and was deaf to Booster's cries to return and quickly took a chute to another mess hall a few floors away from whatever hideous plans for stardom that idiot had in his head now.

There were no possible words to articulate how desperately he wanted a drink right then.

* * *

**I know this one's not really Batman deducing stuff more like him being exasperated at how stupid his fellow teammates are, but I figured this idea was too good to pass up. **

**And to any Twilight fans reading this, I apologize. But you have seriously got to be of unsound mind and body to read those books. Good day.  
**


	6. And Speaking Of Questionable

**Because the story would not be complete without a chapter with this guy in it. **

* * *

The hallway was long and winding, curving about sharp corners and extending down to a very dead end, in which one could only surmise their sudden case of vertigo to the maze through which they had descended to it. Indeed, it was the most altered, most unexpected hallway in the tower, as if the architect had wished to toy with the minds of those who came across it, and whose quarters resided there. Due to that fact, few chose to reside there, and even fewer walked down and past its walls, not only for the cause of dizziness, but for paranoia of bumping into a veritable lunatic.

So Bruce found himself as he strode down the hall, down the shape and form of the ship that so conformed to this hall, a file tucked firmly under his arm as he continued, temper short, patience shorter, and a desire to end this debacle as soon as possible. He was not accustomed to asking others for help, nor was he accustomed borrowing things from them (save his closest friends, and those were in great shortage) and this an almost unprecedented occasion for him, one that he hoped he would not have to repeat again.

The end of the hallway grew near, as did the room at the very end of it, where the one assisting him resided, and he found his pace quicken, the door drawing nearer, and the file found its way to his hand, where it became tightly clenched, and he paused.

The door stood, closed and authoritative, commanding a moment of respect, at the very least, for the occupant, and he utilized that moment and then stepped forward to speak. The person who was in current possession of the room had created voice recognition software and a lock on his door, with technology pocketed here and there that rivaled the technology on Bruce's quarters on the tower.

"Question," Bruce said, imperative as his brow furrowed, "I've finished using your file."

The door slid open and Bruce was introduced, for one of the few unpleasant occasions he would visit it, to the room of long, red strings that extended to the ceiling and were pinned to the wall to the pictures that were scrawled over in incomprehensible scribbling, graphs and charts and statistics that were all folded, plastered over the walls that were no longer visible, and a scent that was not attractive nor detracting but merely there.

In the corner, surrounded by stacks of books ranging from the occult to pie-making, there was a man sitting with no face, unkempt hair, and a fedora slightly askew, typing away on a typewriter, for his paranoia about technology (even his own) had festered and consumed him so.

"Batman. Nice to see you. Brought back my file?" the man that could be summarily illustrated as the most paranoid, conspiracy theorist man Bruce had ever met, did not move his head away from the report that he was constructing.

"Yes. It was helpful." He replied, and The Question nodded, the lack of a face revealing nothing.

"Of course. Glad to be of service. It goes on the table." He pointed with a thumb while maneuvering around the keyboard with one gloved hand, to a thick filing cabinet by the doorway, and Bruce wasted no time in placing it there and turning to leave the room as soon as possible.

"Wait. Something I need to talk about." He stopped him, and reluctantly, Bruce paused and turned to regard the man who had not paused in his typing to even talk to him, and found himself waiting, out of manners he did not think existed within him at the moment.

"What?" he asked, and it did not sound polite even though he was struggling to make it sound like it was. Question paid no mind.

"There are rumors. About you. And others."

"What kinds of rumors?" Bruce asked, a brow cocking up. This was not going to be good.

"Homosexual tendencies. Five men, all seemingly heterosexual, and yet, with the case of you, no longer."

"I'm not discussing this." Bruce said, and there was blatant disgust and contempt in his voice as he turned to leave, yet once more the Question spoke.

"Stop. Not done yet."

"I am." He replied, and he turned to leave the room with the stench he now found quite repelling, only to have the Question follow after him, much to him dismay.

"Then you won't know."

"And about what, pray tell?" he asked, trying to control the consuming desire to crack skulls and break bones.

"It's too suspicious. Five men, all leaving their supposedly theoretical closets, five men who have displayed entirely heterosexual tendencies and displayed no homosexual tendencies whatsoever, have all decided, not only to go their own separate ways, but to center all on one man."

"Thank you for tidily summarizing up the past week for me, Szaz." Bruce retorted coldly.

"Still not done." He responded curtly and continued. "Take into account the personas of the men that are supposedly in love with you."

"_Supposedly?"_ Bruce repeated, as the evidence, experience, and conclusion could only point to that which seemed most obvious.

"Flash. A well-known flirt and Casanova imitator. Plastic Man, who could easily oust him in that field. Orion. A berserker who has appeared to be asexual and more or less with only a desire to fight in his blood. Guy Gardner. Dated many women and has shown revulsion for any homosexual-related topics mentioned at any time. Booster Gold…Booster Gold is undeniably living proof of himself."

"What are you getting at?" Bruce lowly uttered as they paced down to the end of the hallway that was undeniably the Question's, and then into the main foyer leading to an elevator Bruce was willing to throw himself down to escape.

The Question paused, face, blank and unreadable as usual, appearing even more so, unnerving even Bruce as he stared at him and awaited an answer.

"Mind control through an unmentionable _gas."_ He said, quietly, simply, as if it were a fact. "A gradual, secreted chemical inserted through the ventilation shafts of each of these men's quarters, which is all conveniently placed right by their heads of their beds, wafted through at the hour when most of them would usually rest and thus the gas provokes them, manipulates them into experiencing arousing dreams about the person that they would assume some prominence in their mind, at the very least, and would cause them to misinterpret them as budding romantic emotions for said person."

"Which is apparently me?"

"It's a _conspiracy."_ The Question said, enclosing upon the privacy of the Dark Knight, who did not budge but was feeling the strong urge to do so. "If all the men, _superhumans_ no less, were aroused by the same person, the levels of testosterone would skyrocket. There would be a mad, frenzied dash with which, as is the mindset of men, to woo and capture the object of their desires, thus causing a lack in work ethic, organization, and all semblance of authority. The system that you and your cohorts have formulated amongst your private ranks, archaic and susceptible to changes as it already is, would crumble. Anarchy would overcome the league. Disaster will fall."

After a moment of dramatic pause in which the Question had not moved from where he stood, staring up to Bruce, he added for emphasis (which for him, was apparently necessary), _**"Armageddon."**_

"Interesting theory." Bruce said, although it sounded as if he meant anything but. "There are flaws in it, however. There have only been five men. Hardly enough to topple the authority of the league."

"Interesting, indeed. But was it not one woman that brought the original league to its knees and sold out the world to her people?"

Bruce had no outward reaction and chose to change gears unless he decided to give into his need to punch his companion into a wall.

"A gas." He articulated one of the key points of the theorist's ideas, prompting him to nod avidly.

"Yes, oh, _yes._ A gas. The one thing any of the five men have in common is that they regularly spend nights in the quarters they are assigned to, which would give any predator a chance with which to utilize it. Once the five men are secured, they can move onto any other unsuspecting males that have the same variable in common, which only leads to more questions, more questions to be answered, but of course, there will always be questions, but still leaves _you_ to be the subject of attraction. For such reasons I have blocked off the vents to my room, so that such a gas will not affect me."

He paused for breath, and Bruce found the reason for the peculiar smell in the room.

"Does this not make sense?"

Bruce thought, long and hard, and then regarded the Question carefully, considering the idea as well as the obvious lack of sanity before him.

"We'll stay in touch." He replied, by which he obviously meant the opposite by, and then turned on his heel to retreat to an elevator, not even offering the man a second glance.

For a quiet, peaceful moment, the Question stopped and watched, calmly, placidly, and then, unbeknownst to anyone but him, smiled as he returned down the way to his hall.

_Plan A worked. _He thought as he entered in the code to his door, which was the passkey stating the numerical connection of underground government terrorists to My Little Pony (this connection he would bet his life on), and entered his quarters, setting down his hat on the filing cabinet where Bruce had placed the file, and made his way past a ceiling of dangling red string and pictures to his seat.

_Batman has bought the red herring. He is unaware of a sixth's attraction to him. _He sat at his typewriter, as if overcome by serenity (or at least, the closest thing one could achieve in this horrible, godforsaken world) and set off to complete the remainder of his report.

_All is well. _


End file.
